Silver Screen (Nov 1939 - May 1940)

"I not only staged dances," Jimmy told me, ''but I did some tricky specialties myself. I can't say that I was always at ease in this job, but somehow I pulled through. I have always been convinced that I must have been born under a lucky star." And so his career, built on a strange philosophy of refusing to admit anything so remote as failure, went on to greater heights. With his success on the stage in "Penny Arcade," Jimmy found himself on his way to Hollywood. Once more to try something strange and alien. But behind him was his idea: "I'd have been a failure if I'd never tried anything, so nothing can throw me now." "When I came to Hollywood," Jimmy said, "I wasn't in the least worried, largely because I didn't care whether I stayed or not. And I didn't try to philosophize on motion picture technic. To me, acting in pictures was the same as on the stage, except that it was, perhaps, more limited. I just took my script, forgot about cameras and other such matters, and tried to give the most honest performances I could. "One important thing did happen to me in Hollywood, though. I had never really believed I was doing a job as well as it might have been done until I came into pictures. Then, for the first time after all the years of floundering around, I felt I knew my job — acting — well. All the chances I had taken were behind me. Hard work was the only answer to success now. Hard work of a much more exacting kind." In "The Oklahoma Kid," however, Jimmy did his first western. And in it he had to do some fancy trick riding. So, once more, he called on his aged gag and said: "Sure I can ride — and good." (Of course, he couldn't.) He began to learn trick riding, he refused doubles for the dangerous parts of the film, and eventually turned out to be an acceptable — if not an astounding — horseman. The director wanted him to let someone else do the difficult riding, but Jimmy refused George Murphy telling Fred Astaire a new story during the making of "Broadway Melody of 1940." He would not be slumped for the first time in his life. He had a record to preserve. "What's this I hear about your having been a ballet dancer," I asked Jimmy, abruptly swerving the conversation from Hollywood to dancing again. "Oh, that. Well, in New York several years ago, the Capitol Theatre had been featuring ballet on its bill every week. It was decided to augment the show, so calls were sent out for ballet dancers. I was out of work again. So I applied. "Now the only thing I had ever done that even closely resembled ballet were a few gag kicks in my own privacy. When I was given the job, I was just a little worried, for I was afraid I had bitten off more than I could chew this time. However, it all turned out very well. I didn't have to do a single ballet step. My job was in the chorus doing a simple tap routine based on Irish jig steps. I don't know whether the ballet master ever found me out or not, but we became very good friends." Oh yes, I'm almost forgetting Jimmy's proficiency as a musician. In his earlier and more tender years, one might have seen a red-headed youngster sitting belligerently at a piano and pecking away at the keys. A tip of the tongue sticking out here, a frown caressing a furrowed brow, and awkward fingers getting all mixed up in the mess of white and black. And, to complete the picture, there was his mother standing beside him, beaming with each off-key note Jimmy struck. His piano playing stopped after a year or two, but recently he bought a piano. He had never been able to forget that he had stopped before he had mastered it. "I play the piano to amuse myself," said Jimmy indifferently, "and just badly enough to annoy my friends. But, after all, it doesn't hurt to know something about it. The time may come when I might have to apply for a job as a pianist in an orchestra. "Of course, my pride and joy is my she can invite a girl-friend to stay over with us. "She played some pretty tough tikes for awhile. But I wouldn't allow her to turn into a sophisticated brat. She's been accustomed to manners and she doesn't know there is any alternative. Only once have I suffered from a picture — after 'Ginger,' which was made several years ago, it took me two weeks to cure her of the slang she used for that character. "During 1939 she's changed from a child into an adolescent. She doesn't wear bangs anymore. She used to dislike hairdressers, and now she wants a new 'coiffure' every day." When George Ernest said, frankly, that he didn't care for one of her hair styles she promptly abandoned it. "Her tomboy days are through," Ruth Withers continued. "It's almost a shock to see how feminine she has gone. She used to see no sense to fittings, but now she stands patiently and offers her own ideas on line and color." One of Jane's guitar. I've been playing it lor twelve years. I'm still trying. Oh yes, I amuse myself. But as much as I don't like to admit it, I'm still not very proficient." A violin also rests in Jimmy's musical congregation. He had tried that, too. Bui to an outsider, the horrible wailings thai he manages to squeeze out with each slide of the bow hardly testify to his success. With only moderate success as a pianist, violinist, and guitarist, he is now taking vocal lessons. Man of all trades — or tricks — Cagney ! Then, too, there is the Cagney of the carpenter and stone-masonry trades. Why, he even built a log cabin for a friend. (Author's note: It's still standing.) Anrl at his farm in Martha's Vineyard he is always puttering around with stone work. Between pictures he spends considerable time working long and hard in his position — and a responsible one it is — as vice-president of the Screen Actors Guild. Jimmy had finished his lunch and was just about to leave, so I thought I'd a.5k what he'd gained by his impetuous daring. "What have I gained?" Jimmy reiterated as he eyed the remaining tid-bits of his dessert. "A lot. First of all, taking the chances I have has kept me fed, and that was quite an item in the old days. Besides, it's made me see the necessity of forcing myself to take advantage of any opportunity offered, regardless of its apparent difficulties The very fact that I'm an actor today is due to my determination to eat and my insistence at not recognizing any pattern that life may have mapped out for me at first. "I don't feel that my success is so unusual. Any person can have the same amount of success if he doesn't sit back and wait for things to happen to him. If he claims experience where he has none, it puts him on his mettle. Things will happen to him a lot faster. And I've found out that breaks of the game seldom come to those who don't make them themselves. "Besides, / never took any chances. My bosses did." non-professional friends, Jeanie Howlett, is a year older and taller. Jeanie's skirts are three inches longer, Jane has pointed out to 20th Century-Fox executives. In fact, she spent an hour pleading for "more fashionable" screen attire. There is some recompense in that Mrs. Withers has okayed a long party dress, some stunning hostess robes, and frilly nightgowns instead of plain pajamas — for personal wear." Jane's slimming accentuates her graduation from kiddishness. In three months she has gained five inches in height and lost twelve pounds. Now five feet two, weighing an even hundred pounds, wil'n a twenty-three rather than a thirty-one inch waistline, she can argue diet with the best of them. She is anxious to become five feet six, claiming a girl thai height looks best in her clothes. She no longer eats nine rolls in a row. She remains a collector, but of an entirely different range of "valuables." She Mother Confides About Jane [Continued from page 45] for January 1940 65